


Where the Flyboys Don't Fly

by Golden_Boots



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Anal Sex, Desk Sex, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Male Slash, Mystery Character(s), Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 14:58:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3124424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Golden_Boots/pseuds/Golden_Boots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baltar has been summoned to Madame President's cabin on Colonial One.  His trial looms.  Last time, Roslin visited him in his cell and took vengeance most cruelly.  What does she want with him this time?  And is it true, what they say about her and the viper pilots?  </p>
<p>This story takes place shortly before Episode 19 "Crossroads Part 1", Season 3 and is a sequel to my story "A Ride to Aerilon".  It can be read in isolation, however, and is a different take on the Baltar/Roslin dynamic.  It also contains some Gaeta slash! USUAL DISCLAIMERS APPLY  <br/>ICON CREDIT: anaithis</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Flyboys Don't Fly

“Is that what you’re going to be wearing during your trial, Dr Baltar?”

“Yes, it is, actually. Why – were you planning on something similar? How embarrassing for the President to be seen wearing the same outfit as the arch-traitor of the Colonies.”

“No, I just find black an odd choice for someone so keen to paint himself whiter-than-white. However, black does look rather good on you – dashing rather than dour.”

“Well, I’m glad you approve,” he sneered but when the guards took off his handcuffs, he tucked in his shirt and pulled down his cuffs until they fitted just-so. Shirt and trousers were made of a thick, quality black cotton with a sheen that rivalled the gloss of his dark brown hair.

The guards left and he stood alone in the entrance doorway of the President’s cabin on Colonial One.

A slim, attractive woman in her fifties stood opposite him, leaning against her desk. Apprehension bubbled inside him. He had not forgotten the violent tone of their last encounter. His feelings, at the very least, could be described as ‘mixed’.

Roslin held out a glass of amber spirit she had clearly poured out in anticipation of his arrival. When she noted his reluctance to step into the room, she teased, “I can assure you it’s just whisky, not some Quorum-approved suicide draught.”

“Oh, thank you for reminding me of the tenuous situation of my mortal life.”

“The mortal lives of us all are tenuous these days. But, yes, death comes sooner for some of us than others.” She fixed him with a surprisingly calm green stare. “Come in, Dr Baltar, you have nothing to fear from me now. I have a simple request, that’s all. And you may answer yes or no.”

“A simple request,” he came forward and took the glass from her, “of the man who has everything.”

She ignored his sarcasm, watched him knock back a gulp of whisky and try to hide the pleasure he took in it. “Please – sit down.” She indicated the couch set at a right angle to the President’s desk.

Baltar obliged. Why not? Time, he reckoned, to take your pleasure where you could – a glass of whisky, a nice sit-down. And there was also this mention of a request that set hope glimmering on the horizon, his instinct for self-preservation grabbing his vanity by the collar and yanking it out of the room. He hunched over his glass and glowered up at her from beneath his eyebrows.

Roslin prowled in front of her desk but it was not the parade of a powerful alpha cat this time. It was the mindless, repetitive behaviour of a caged thing. Finally, she stopped and looked directly at him, a strange blush appearing on her cheeks. “You’re aware I sleep with the viper pilots?”

Of course, he’d heard the rumours but they’d always come to him second or third hand. The pilots themselves had never hinted at it in his presence so he’d tended to dismiss it as gossip. Realising both a ‘yes’ and a ‘no’ response could compromise him, he moved his head in an ambiguous fashion, troubled eyes never leaving her.

“Well, I do. It’s a perk of the job. It helps me do my job. One of the female pilots put me onto the idea that some of the male pilots might be up for being frak buddies, as they say.”

No prizes for guessing who the little blond minx who made that suggestion was, thought Baltar with a stab of jealousy.

“It’s a wonderful stress-reliever.”

“No doubt,” he said drily.

“The pilots are healthy, virile young men and I’m sure they believe themselves to be wild things. But most of the things they want to do are pretty tame. In the greater scheme of things.” She spoke with great deliberation, holding his gaze as she did so. She leant back against her desk almost coquettishly.

After a moment’s silence, Baltar blurted, “Oh, so you’re saying you want to use me as a sex toy again.”

“Shh – there’re guards right outside the door.”

His voice rose to its high-pitched, hectoring level. “Well, you can just pay them off, can’t you, as you clearly did with the last one! What is it you want me to do this time, Laura? Cut my throat? Eat my own shit?”

Roslin hung her head. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second then opened them and said in a rush, “I want you to have anal sex with me.”

Baltar laughed. “And that’s it, is it?”

“That’s it.” Suddenly, she wasn’t meeting his eyes anymore. “I want you to have anal sex with me because I’ve never done it before – my job took precedence over a love life – and the pilots are so squeaky clean, I’d feel I was corrupting them if I brought it to the table. I need you to –“

“Fly where the flyboys don’t fly?”

Her lips twitched with humour despite herself. “Precisely.”

As she stood there with her hair falling in front of her face, slight frame seeming gauche and trembly, the thought of ramming his cock to the hilt in her arse – watching her eyes fly wide, torso stiffen – was momentarily very appealing. Instead, he curled his lip and said in his crispest tone, “Sorry, really very busy at the moment, no can do.” He turned towards the door.

A hand grasped his wrist. He turned back but she still wouldn’t raise her head. “What I did to you, that night in your cell? It was wrong. It was abusive and I –“ she swallowed hard, “- I apologise.”

A frown of confusion crept into Baltar’s face.

“I hope you can forgive me.”

“Laura, I – I wouldn’t have responded in the way I did if some part of me hadn’t enjoyed it.” Why was he saying this? That ridiculously polite and kind part of him rearing its silly head again.

Her hand slid from his wrist to his hand and she placed hers in his like a child seeking comfort. “Will you have anal sex with me, Dr Baltar?” She met his eyes, her own like shining stones, giving little away.

“Alright.” He was very quiet now. He tugged on her hand, moving towards the couch.

“No, I want to do it here. I need to do it here.” She pulled herself up so she was sitting on her desk.

“You want to do it on the edge of the Presidential desk? Laura, that’s a rather uncomfortable position for what can sometimes be a rather uncomfortable act.”

She flashed that tense smile of hers. “Sounds like I’ve got myself an expert.” She raised her parted knees and pulled him between them. “Are you? I mean, have you had anal sex with women before?”

And there she was, Caprica Six laughing in the background at the notion that Gaius Baltar was an anal virgin. How many positions had they done it in? Very many indeed. Once, memorably, on the stairs of his apartment, Caprica sprawled face down, one endless leg wrapped around the rungs, deliciously agonised as Baltar hovered above then sank down, nailing her to the spot.

He did his best to ignore her. “Yes, I have,” he said gently.

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Yes. It’s very intimate.”

“Intimate?” She pulled back as if ‘intimate anal’ were an oxymoron.

“Very.” He put his hand on her hip, on the dark woollen skirt that was now riding up to mid- thigh. With his other hand, he brushed back her hair and laid the palm against her bare neck. He looked as if he were about to kiss her passionately.

“I douched,” said Roslin, shattering the moment. “And I’ve been. Er. Practising. And I have lube…” She reached for a drawer and fumbled inside it. Her hands were shaking.

Baltar took the lube from her (it was a good brand, he noted, thin and slippery rather than gloopy, and would stay that way for the duration) then clasped her to him. “What you need is foreplay. Allow yourself this. Don’t let it be a challenge to overcome – let it be a pleasure.”

She nodded and removed her glasses but she still looked uncertain.

He moved in and began to kiss her neck, sweeping his lips up and down, fixing on this tender spot or that and suckling, tongue making luscious passes. She shivered as his goatee tickled her. He moved his hips against her, grinding in a rhythm that matched the movements of his hands and mouth. Slowly, he ran one hand down from her shoulder, enjoying the slide of the cream silk blouse under his fingers, until he reached her breast. Her body stiffened. As in his cell before, she was reluctant to have her breasts touched and suddenly, he realised why.

She took his wavering hand and put it between her legs instead, placing the flat of his thumb against her clitoris.

“Oh, Laura,” he breathed and once more buried his face in her neck as she did in return. Still, he maintained the pressure on her nub, moving his thumb in circles. When he felt her relax and begin to move her hips in time with him, he reached under her skirt and pulled her black cotton panties down to her ankles. She kicked them off and immediately clamped her legs around him again. Baltar put his thumb in his mouth, coating it with saliva, then tried a new technique. Pulling up the hem of her skirt so he could watch his ministrations, he began to pass his thumb across her clitoris, barely touching her yet sending vibrations deep. Several lovers had preferred this style, telling him it reminded them of the ultra-lubricated action of his tongue.

Clearly, it worked for Laura, too. It wasn’t long before her breath was coming in gasps and she started jiggling her hips in her urgency.

Baltar’s eyes were huge as he watched her clitoris swell. He put his thumb to his mouth over and over before returning to his work. He was panting, too, his brow furrowing, losing sight of the goal.

“No,” said Laura, “not yet. I don’t want to come yet.” She took his hand and moved it further down. He fondled her slit, dipping in and out – she was running with juice – then sliding his forefinger over the hump of her perineum and pressing it against her anus. Roslin gave the tiniest whimper and bit her bottom lip then Baltar pushed and his finger disappeared inside her. Her head fell back as she focused on the strange sensation.

The scientist paused for a moment, studying the woman’s face, then began to move his finger inside her, stroking the silky surface of her rectum, going in and out just a fraction as she got used to the feeling. Then he grabbed the bottle of lube, applied it liberally to his active hand and pushed a second finger into her anus. Slowly, he began to stretch her while his thumb slipped into her slit and stimulated her there.

Roslin’s head came up and her eyes opened just a fraction, slivers of Egyptian faience gleaming at him. “Do you like doing this,” she said archly, “degrading women?”

He looked at her in some confusion. “I’m not degrading you.”

Her mouth went into a line. She didn’t believe him.

“I’m not. You’ve got me all wrong, Laura. I’m not cruel. I love sex. I love anal sex because, as I told you, it’s so intimate.” He began to kiss along her jawline, massaging her pussy and arse more firmly now, as he whispered to himself, “So frakking intimate.” He smiled as he reached her mouth and flicked his tongue across it, teasing her into using her tongue, too. She stretched it out so it just rested on her lower lip. Baltar circled it with his own then sucked it into his mouth.

What he’d said had been 80% true. Of course, there had been moments when he was frakking a girl in the arse that he’d imagined himself to be degrading her, molesting her even. Something in the chthonian cries of a sodomised girl brought that out in him. But not always. Not always.

Roslin seemed to have found her playful side. Smiling slyly, she said, “Have you ever stuck a finger in your own ass?”

He sniggered against her lips. “I have, actually.”

“You don’t consider that unmasculine?”

He bridled inside but didn’t let it show. “No. I consider my body to be my own private playground and it’s nobody’s business what I do there.” He began to scissor his fingers and kissed her deeply.

But Roslin was on a roll. Once her lips were free, she rejoined, “Have you ever frakked another man? Been frakked?”

His face twitched. “Not my thing, really.”

“Not even Lieutenant Gaeta?”

“Gaeta?” He pulled back, his hands freezing. “Why would you – would anyone – think I’ve frakked Lieutenant Gaeta?”

She placed a reassuring hand on his chest. “I don’t think anyone does. It was just very clear the young man had a crush on you when he was working in your laboratory. He’s – rather pretty. And his current vengeful attitude smacks of that of a lover spurned.” She started to rub his chest.

“No, I never frakked Gaeta and he never asked me to.” He looked at her with hooded eyes, upper lip curling with frosty amusement. “But you’d like it if I had, wouldn’t you? The thought turns you on.”

“I’m a red-blooded female, Gaius Baltar.”

* * *

Truth be told, if Baltar were to frak another man, he would definitely choose Felix Gaeta. Not now, of course, not since the neck-stabby incident thing. But back when they were colleagues in his lab. There was something about that boy… He was masculine – there was no doubt whatsoever that he was male. He was fairly tall, his shoulders were surprisingly broad and well-tooled, the few times he brought them out to play when working out or what-have-you. His hair was short and cut in a masculine style. Yet there was something exquisite about his looks. Beautiful rather than handsome yet not effeminate – he had the beauty and grace of a stern angel. His glittering dark eyes bewitched; his lips looked delicious as ripe fruit; his curly black hair tempted admirers to plunge a hand into it, feel myriad curls capture their fingers and force them to linger. No-one had ever intimated to Baltar that his colleague was bisexual. He had found that out for himself.

It had been during his time as Vice President. Sometimes, it was a dull old business and Baltar found himself longing for the focus of science. Truth be told, he missed his lab. He even missed those days of feeding endless samples into his great cylon detector. One evening, as he sat in his quarters, ruminating as he smoked a slim fumarella, he decided to take a trip down memory lane. It was 8 o’clock and he knew the lab would be all shut up by now but he still had access and no-one would mind if he let himself in after hours. Genius is as genius does, after all.

He threw on some clothes and made it there in such good time he hadn’t quite finished his smoke. He had stopped at the door to savour the last few drags when he realised the lab was already occupied. The geometric door was open just a crack. Through the gap, he could see the overhead lights were off but the blue-white worktop lights cast their eerie glow across the room, making shadows.

There was a man lying on the lab floor. There was something over his head. Baltar frowned and drew back, fearing someone had been attacked and that somehow, for some reason, he might get the blame. The man’s head moved, Baltar’s eyes grew used to the light, and the shapes resolved themselves into the head and naked torso of a young man, his lower half hidden behind a free-standing work station. One thigh of another man was crooked over his head. His cheek rested on the inner thigh of the other.

Two men were lying on their sides on the floor of the lab in the 69 position. He could see quite clearly the underside of the mystery man’s shaft as it disappeared into the mouth of the other. That man was Felix Gaeta.

Baltar gasped, a forced look of revulsion passing over his face. Very forced. He couldn’t move from the door. There was something hypnotic about the scene. Only one side of Gaeta’s face was lit. He looked pacific as his lips worshipped the swollen intrusion, sliding up and down, up and down. His hands appeared, stroking the backs of the man’s muscular thighs then running up to grasp his buttocks and urge him deeper into his throat. The hips began to move faster, more jerkily. Gaeta’s smooth brow gained a furrowed, plaintive expression and Baltar realised the hidden man was about to come. The arse quivered; the shaft’s big vein pulsed and even though Gaeta’s eyes were closed, his pretty eyelashes casting spidery shadows on his cheeks, Baltar knew they were rolling back in his head. The scientist clamped a hand over the bulge in his trousers as he couldn’t help but picture his own climax exploding in Felix Gaeta’s sweet mouth.

“Well, well, well, Gaius, so much for being a lady’s man and a lady’s man only.” Caprica Six’s eyes slid away from the gap in the door and fixed on Baltar’s, shining with amusement.

“It’s an erotic scene whichever perspective you look at it from,” he whispered, slightly defensively. “And Felix Gaeta is the least physically repulsive man I know.”

“Repulsive?” she laughed, placing her hand on the rod that was making a tent out of his trousers.

He smiled wryly and gave her a look that said both, What would you know about it? and What are you going to do about it? As Caprica Six began to tickle him, Baltar mused, “He’s frakking Lieutenant Hoshi, I presume.”

The hidden man rose. It was Pegasus viper pilot Narcho. Baltar got his second surprise of the evening as he watched the two striking young men share a slow, deep, post-69 kiss, an occasional buttering of semen gleaming between their lips. Caprica Six unzipped his zipper and fondled him as she closed in, her tongue reaching him before her lips did, licking across his mouth.

Baltar smirked then moaned. It wasn’t quite the trip he’d been expecting this evening but there was no memory sweeter than that of Six.

* * *

Roslin closed her eyes and, just for a moment, put down her hand to rub her clitoris while her enemy swirled his thumb and fingers in her orifices, then she reached over in business-like fashion and began to undo his trousers.

He let her, watched as her quaking fingers pulled his circumcised prick out of confinement and stroked it. She pulled his trousers and underwear down his hips, and cupped his balls. His pubic hair was black and glossy as the hair on his head. The hair dusting his thighs and running up his belly to the thatch of his chest was fleecier. Roslin stroked everything, experimenting with every type of touch, every little trick.

The scientist smiled. As if she needed to work so hard to get him hard. She didn’t realise that the very thought of sodomising Madame President was stimulation enough! The man, the scientist, the lover in him had awoken. With his left hand, he snatched up the bottle of lube and applied it to his stiff prick. Forehead to forehead they stood as they smoothed it in. Soon, it was gleaming and bucking playfully in their hands. Fascinated, Roslin ran a final finger around the mushroom head then lifted herself onto the desk, bringing her heels up onto the edge. There was a clatter as one of her court shoes fell to the floor.

Baltar suppressed a sigh. It really wasn’t the ideal place to be doing this but he didn’t want to break the mood now. He withdrew his fingers and swiftly replaced them with the nozzle of the lube. Roslin whimpered as he squeezed the bottle. “I know,” he reassured her. “It’s cold at first. It’ll warm up soon enough.” He took out the nozzle; watched a thin stream of lube trickle out of her pink, puckered hole. He rubbed it into the skin. Yes, it was cold! But the heat of her made short shrift of that.

Grasping her hips, Baltar pushed forward with his own until his cockhead was resting against her anus. “It’s going to happen,” he heard himself say with some surprise. He searched her face, concern visible in his as a sweeping up of the inner ends of his eyebrows. “Are you okay? Do you still want this?”

Her skin was sweaty, strands of her fluffy red hair sticking to it. She swallowed and licked her lips, steeling herself.

“I want you to enjoy it, Laura. Just relax and enjoy it.”

“Alright.” She met his dark eyes with her own bright ones. “Do it.”

Holding her tightly with his arm crooked about her hips, Baltar pushed forwards. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Gently does it, gently does it.” He felt her anus give to the pressure and suddenly he was plunging into the satiny depths of her rectum.

The President cried out. “Oh Gods – it feels so strange!”

Her lover moved just a little, and it set her shrieking and writhing like a speared fish. “Stay with me,” he urged. “I’m not attacking you – I’m frakking you. Feel it. Feel it.” He pulled out further until the head was once more stretching her anus, this time from the inside, then plunged in to the hilt. Over and over he thrust, until the familiarity of the rhythm of a good frak took her over and her body began to pulse in time to each penetration. He began to brush a thumb over her clitoris again, watching her intently for signs of rising pleasure. Pretty soon, she was gritting her teeth and meeting his gaze with a look of complicit wickedness.

There they were, the President and the scientist, grinning and frakking like filthy, crazy people on the Colonial One desk. “Oh, Laura,” Baltar sighed, his eyes warm. “You’re so pretty. Do you like being frakked in the arse?”

She was shaking almost uncontrollably, mouth quivering. “It’s so – intimate,” she cried. “So intimate!”

“Shh. It’s okay,” he reassured. His hold on her was firm as his cock slammed in and out. Then he realised her shaking was not just down to nerves. “Are you going to come for me, Laura? Where are you going to come? Are you going to come with your arsehole? Focus on it – feel the pleasure. Squeeze and come with your arsehole.” For a second, he slipped out of her and she whimpered with disappointment. But he was done with perching on the desk. One arm swept the presidential paraphernalia to the floor then he tipped Roslin onto her back and knelt on the desk above her. Immediately, she pulled her knees up to her chest, her reddened well inviting him once more, her fingers working above it at not far off the speed of light.

Baltar angled his hard-on at her then plunged in deep. The President let out a scream of joy as his long, flexible cock pierced her and returned to the old familiar tempo. “I mean it, Laura,” Baltar gasped as he loomed above her, his dark hair falling around her face. “You can come with your arsehole. Do it. Feel it.”

She lost control. She was staring down at Baltar’s pistoning hips, her own frantic fingers, as a thin cry suddenly emerged from her. Her face seemed to contort in agony - then Baltar felt it. Her already tight rectum was clenching him fiercely, over and over, as the woman’s entire lower half bucked in her ecstasy. She made no sound as she came though her mouth was stretched wide. No matter – Baltar made noise enough for both of them, the feeling of her orgasm rippling along the length of her rectum pulling his own from him. He shrieked from between clenched teeth, pulling his hips back for one final, violent invasion of his sparring partner’s bowels before emptying his seed inside her and collapsing. “Oh Gods, oh Gods, frak me!” he panted as he came down.

“Ow!” hissed Roslin. “Ow, ow, ow!”

“Oh, yes,” he said, parting her buttocks and pulling out his softening prick. “Forgot to mention. Feels good right up until you come but hurts like billy-o after.” He laid himself on his side beside her, an arm thrown over her waist and gazed at her. Roslin clamped both hands over her crotch and moved against them as the orgasm slowly dissipated from her nether regions. After a while (during which time Baltar smiled and stroked her hair), Roslin’s body stilled and her eyes opened. They were steady and hard. “Thank you,” she said to the air.

“Not a problem,” said Baltar, “any time.” He rained kisses on her neck.

She got up quickly and pulled down her skirt.

“Oh, you might want to go to the loo –“ he began helpfully.

“Thank you but it won’t be happening again.”

Baltar looked concerned. He replayed their coupling in his mind. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. It was very pleasurable and just what I asked for. But it won’t be happening again.” She met his eyes. “It can’t happen again.” She threw him a pack of wet wipes as she disappeared inside the Colonial One lavatory.

The scientist sat up, and was about to double over and plunge his hands into his hair when he remembered where they’d been. He picked up the wet wipes and cleaned his hands, then mopped up the sopping mess that was his crotch. His new trousers would have to be dry cleaned now.

By the time Roslin re-entered, Baltar was tucked in and zipped up and presentable again. “I want you to know, Gaius,” she said, “that I no longer bear you ill-will. I think I know you a little better than I did before and I believe you when you say there is no malice in your actions.”

“Yes, well, I should hope so!” he interjected.

She held up a hand. “Let me finish. And so, there will be no malicious prejudice on my part during your trial. I will speak the truth and the truth only.”

Baltar did up the top button of his shirt, hiding his hairy chest from view just to teach her a lesson. His lip curled as he spat, “Small. Frakking. Mercies.” He walked towards the door but paused as his hand reached the wheel. He looked back at her standing there so neatly now like some immaculate pot doll. “I have some advice for you, Laura. Stop denying yourself pleasure. Your whole life, you’ve denied yourself pleasure. That’s what’s killing you. Life’s too short.”

She waited until he’d given himself up once more to the guards before she allowed herself to shed a bitter-sweet tear.


End file.
